


Defining Moments

by almostbecamehistoric (capgal)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capgal/pseuds/almostbecamehistoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some moments in life are more important than others. A few come to define us, define our lives--and our deaths. Twoshot with epilogue. Enjolras POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“We’re the only barricade left.”_

The words were heavy and empty on his tongue. Every particle of his body screamed denial, but there was nothing he could do against the evidence that stared at him so blatantly and mercilessly. They had been abandoned. They had failed. No, _he_ had failed them. He bowed his head under the weight of both the momentous statement, and that of the guilt that followed. A tense, heavy silence hung in the air, ringing with denial and betrayal, replete with unspoken words.

After a long moment that stretched over what felt like years, Enjolras regained his composure in a sudden flash of realization. He may have been sentenced to death by the people’s failure to rise, but his amis… they need not die. He could release them from the shackles that held them here; he could free them of the burden, of the fear and grief and pain of death. He opened his mouth, intending to allow any and all who wished to depart do so without shame, when the fateful cry cut him short.

_**“Cannons!”** _

Somehow, impossibly, his heavy heart sank even further. _Cannons._ They had not a chance in hell to make it out alive--not when cannons were involved. If anything, they would be lucky to survive the next hour. He saw panic spark in the eyes of the men around him, replacing the dead glaze of shock and betrayal. There were a few seconds left before their fates were decided for them. 

“None of you have to die here," he began, words leaving his mouth in a fast stream. "In fact, I pray that you do not, mes amis. You have done all your duty to Patria. You have already sacrificed more than I could ever have asked of you. You are free to go, to leave this barricade and never return. You do not have to share the death sentence with me. Please, mes amis, do not throw your lives away! Go, while there is still time. Please.” He was nearly begging by the end; the resolute looks in his lieutenants’ eyes scared him, more than even the news that they were alone. These men around him were barely more than schoolboys. They were only idealists who dared to dream too big and reach too far. They were courageous, and intelligent, and valiant, and glorious; they deserved to live. They did not have to die. They should not die. They must not die. “Please,” he repeated in a whisper, even as he realized that it was useless; the tense silence greeted his words showed no sign of desertion. Enjolras watched with growing desperation as his friends—his brothers—exchanged grim glances, their determination written on the firm set of their lips, the hard glint of their eyes. They, too, would live and die with Patria. “Please,” he whispered one last time, his choked voice barely audible over the din on the other side of the barricade.

Gavroche was the first to break the spell that held them still. “M’stayin’, Enjolras,” the boy said, his childish voice heavy with the weight of a vow. His lieutenants began to support Gavroche with murmurs and nods of assent, but Enjolras only spun around to face the boy, panic seizing him. If there was one who must survive, one whose death he could not bear to cause, it was this daring and innocent gamin. “Non! Non, Gavroche, you will not stay. You will leave, you must live. Go. Now. Somebody, take him out of here! That is a command! Combeferre, please, take hi-” 

“Fire!!”

The loud command cut off his words. A second later, the first volley of cannons blasted into the barricade, ripping through the pile of furniture as if it were but a crumpled sheet of paper. Their time was up, their fate decided.

With the departure of every last scrap of hope he had had—even his amis were now doomed to die—an overpowering calm settled over Enjolras. Without hope, there was also no fear. He met the eyes of each man, nodding firmly. There was no time for last words or goodbyes, and for once, Enjolras wasn’t sure he had the words to speak. Instead, he held the gaze of each man for a split second, hoping to convey at least some of the words left unsaid: gratitude for their loyalty and devotion, grief for the inevitable loss of their lives, pride for their courage and dedication, anger for the unfairness of the battle they fought, guilt for leading them to death on a lonely and abandoned barricade… He trusted his friends to understand as he seized his carbine and ran back onto the barricade.

"Vive la révolution! Vive la France! Vive l’avenir!”


	2. Chapter 2

It was as if all his nightmares, his worst fears, his buried doubts had come together in one horrendous reality. The ceaseless march of heavy boots. The repeated volleys of gunshots. The pressure of the carbine in his hand. The ominous whistle of bullets flying by his face. The agonized faces of the men he shot. The death screams of his amis. The clouds of white smoke. The blinding muzzle flares. The flying chips of wood. The blood. The bodies. The despair, the anger, the pain, the betrayal, the fear, the hopelessness… It all blended into one continuous mass of sounds and sights in his mind. He stood, panting, with the only three survivors—Combeferre, Joly, and Courfeyrac. Combeferre was bleeding heavily from a head wound, Courfeyrac nursing a gunshot to his shoulder, and Joly limping heavily.

The stairs to the upper floor where they stood had been destroyed, but it would only prolong the inevitable. He saw, all too clearly, the fear in their faces, and he reached out to each of them, grasping their hand tightly for a moment. There were words he longed to speak—words of sorrow, of gratitude, of apology, of pride—but there was no time. Instead, he pressed his lips briefly to the back of each battle-worn hand, and prayed that would be enough.

There was an ominous clatter and rumble below. The metallic click of rifles echoed through the silent café. Enjolras saw the horrible comprehension dawn on his amis’ faces at the same moment he understood: they would shoot through the floor.

He had not time to do anything before the volley rang out. They crumpled to the ground like rag dolls, faces twisted in the pain of their last moments. Combeferre, the guide, the pacifist who still fought because he believed that strongly in liberty. Courfeyrac, the center, the playful man who brought them all together, even in his last moments. Joly, the doctor, the hypochondriac who plunged his hands into countless wounds in just one day in a futile attempt to save a few lives. Gone, all were gone, taken in a hail of uncaring bullets. And yet, in the ultimate cruel joke of fate, Enjolras, the leader who had caused it all, was left standing. Somehow, he had not even been grazed by a single shot.

Guilt and despair threatened to overwhelm him, but he gritted his teeth and forced his face to stay in an emotionless mask. He owed it to the men he had led, and failed, to die by their side without fear. He owed it to them to be the last gesture of defiance of a fallen barricade.

He waited, an eerie calm settled over his mind, as the National Guard slowly climbed up to the top floor by way of ladder. Finally, the first man reached the top. Their eyes met.

“It’s the leader. It is he who killed the artilleryman. It is well that he has put himself there. Let him stay there. Let us shoot him to the spot,” he shouted.

Within seconds, Enjolras was surrounded by more than a dozen Guardsmen, each with his gun pointed directly at him. Enjolras threw aside the broken butt of his worn carbine, baring his breast to the soldiers.

“Shoot me,” he ordered calmly. He watched as the men looked at one another warily, and wondered distantly what could have disturbed them. He was nothing but the leader of a failed revolution, an idealistic schoolboy who dared dream too far. He was no longer armed, not even with a bottle or a broken carbine. Surely he was no threat to anybody.

Eventually, a dozen men stepped forward in a line—a firing squad. Enjolras stared at them levelly, making sure to keep his posture straight and his head held high. They silently readied their guns, the soft metallic clatters sounding like thunderclaps in the oppressive silence. “Take aim!” shouted a sergeant. The guns pointed at Enjolras’ unprotected chest. Enjolras did not even blink; a small part of him feared he would not be able to hold his composure if he dared move a muscle.

“Wait!” An officer’s voice cut through. Enjolras slowly turned his head towards the man. “Do you wish to have your eyes covered?”

“No.”

“Was it you who killed the artilleryman?”

“Yes.”

Two simple questions, two simple answers. There was nothing more to be said; the student had admitted his own guilt, effectively sentenced himself to death. And yet, without the smallest sign of regret, he turned his eyes back to the muzzles pointed at his chest, waiting. It would only be a few seconds now, at most.

“Vive la République! I’m one of them.”

Every head in the room spun towards the source of the sound. Grantaire stood , eyes startlingly clear of the cloud of drink that normally glazed them. Before Enjolras could say a word to the contrary, before he could even blink, the drunkard repeated the same dark cheer and pushed his way through the rows of soldiers to his side.

“Kill us both at one shot,” Grantaire said clearly, calmly. He turned to Enjolras, no hint of dread or fear in the dark eyes. “Permets-tu?”

There was much Enjolras could have said, that he wanted to say. _Non. Stand down. Survive. Don’t do this. Thank you. I’m sorry. Why?_ But this was neither the time, nor the place to voice them. He smiled instead, and grasped Grantaire’s hand the way he had grasped the others’. With the other hand, he raised the tattered red flag high in one last gesture of defiance.

A ringing volley echoed through the café. He felt bullets ripping through his flesh, agony radiating from the wounds to every inch of his body. Thankfully, the pain lasted only a moment before darkness took over his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue in the middle, between the National Guard and Enjolras, as well as between Enjolras and Grantaire, is taken word-for-word from the original novel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short epilogue of sorts

The National Guard stood motionless and silent for a long moment. Each heart was heavy with a weight they could not express, each mind full of an unidentifiable darkness, each set of eyes fixed on the scene in front of them. An angelically handsome boy with a girlish face framed with golden curls leaned against the wall, half-closed eyes startlingly blue even in the blankness of death. He would look asleep, were it not for the eight bleeding tears in his marble body that pinned him there. A red flag, ripped and stained dark with blood, was clenched tightly in his hand.

Sprawled at his feet as if in worship was a dark-haired boy. His eyes, clouded in death, still gazed up towards the golden-haired boy. Their fingers were still connected, intertwined with each other's. 

On both youthful faces was the same smile, as if in their last moments they had shared a secret unknown to the rest of the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this through! Any comments, suggestions, constructive criticism.. really, anything you have to say, I'd love to hear!


End file.
